


Lord Captain

by Apetslife



Category: Black Sails
Genre: AU, Lieutenant James McGraw, M/M, Pirate Captain Thomas Hamilton, Pirates, So AU it's Ridiculous, prisoner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-23 00:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apetslife/pseuds/Apetslife
Summary: Yeah, so.  I don't usually do WIPs.  This idea kind of grabbed my brain last night as I was trying to sleep, though, and wouldn't let go until I'd at least posted a chapter.  This isn't even my main ship!  But here you have it:  Thomas Hamilton, pirate captain of the Walrus, scourge of the Caribbean.  If I keep this going, the rating will most assuredly change.FAIR WARNING:  THIS MAY BE AN ETERNAL WIP.  There is no grand plan.  Chapters come as they will.  Caveat emptor and I'll never leave a cliffhanger. <3





	1. Chapter 1

James parries a dagger heading for his liver, spins, and runs the pirate through, before stepping back behind the two marines who move forward to take point. They are pinned here in the bow, he thinks grimly, the six of them. Three marines, two sailors, and himself, and he can see the rest of the ship spread out before him, the fighting all but over, pirates disarming every crewman and sending them down to sit amidships, beaten. The Captain is nowhere to be seen.

“‘Ware left,” he calls, and the marine spins and fires, misses, and goes down underneath three pirates, and James curses filthily and but hasn’t nearly got his breath back yet, and waves a sailor forward to meet the charge. “Stand firm,” he orders, voice carrying over the sharp ring of blades meeting. “Keep the circle.” They won’t shoot at them if there’s a chance to hit their own mates. He’s fairly sure. He’d gathered these five from a failed defense of the hold, fought through pirates back-to back and keeping them in order, but now there is nowhere else to go.

“Lieutenant McGraw.” The voice rings out and somehow, everything stops, including James himself. A very tall man, wearing a long black coat that swirls around his legs as he walks, is picking his way through the blood and bodies to the bow. There is blood on his face, two swords at his belt, and he’s holding a pistol. 

The pirate captain, James thinks, with something like despair.

“Stand down,” the man orders, and the pirates all take a step back. James would take this moment to charge out from the bow, find a tactically more advantageous place to make his stand, but he can see that the day is lost, and he lowers his own blade. 

“Lieutenant McGraw,” the captain says again, his words round and soft with the accent breeding and culture, and James scowls. “I’ve spoken with your Captain, and he said I’d likely find you with your back against a wall, still fighting. I thank you for your good sense in standing down. As you can see, there is little point in continuing to resist.” He gestures expansively to the ship behind them. The _Grace_ isn’t much to look at, blocky, slow, wide-beamed and broad-bowed as she is, but she’s theirs, and she’s been taken, and he could almost cry at the shame of it.

“Where is the captain now?” James bites out. The man is a coward and a weakling, but he’s not cruel, and if they’ve cut him down, no power on earth will keep James from his revenge.

“He’s in his cabin. He’s given me his parole and surrendered the ship, it’s all quite proper.” The pirate captain his watching him closely, the black of gunpowder on his face making his eyes look much more blue, even with his broad hat shading his face. 

“Mister Gates,” the captain calls, after they just look at each other for a moment. “Please take Lieutenant McGraw and his men into custody. And this time, _search_ them, for fuck’s sake.” The profanity, spoken in that cultured and refined voice, startles a snort out of James, who hands over his sword reluctantly as he and his small band of resistance are swarmed almost instantly. A short fellow, stout and muscled with a bald tattooed head, pats him down quite thoroughly, before binding his hands with ropes and towing him down to sit with the rest of the crew, as ignominious as cargo, piled amidships among the barrels of flour and salt fish and rum that they’d been ferrying to the fleet ships in Port Royal.

Pirate guards stalk between their lines, keen eyes on them, but there’s no overt threat of violence. No beatings or torture, not even any curses or mockery, though a few of them are speaking a language he doesn’t know. He leans his head back against a barrel and tries to get comfortable around the still-bleeding cut on his ribs that he’d taken as the pirates had come over the rail.

He opens his eyes and looks up, and the captain is standing on the foredeck, staring directly at him. He glares. The pirate captain _smiles at him_ , and turns away with a dramatic swirl of that ridiculous coat, and James uses his forearm to shove the hair that’s come loose from his officer’s queue out of his face, and sighs.

“What’s to become of us, sir?” That’s young Marley, one of the midshipmen, and James tries to school his face into reassurance.

“They’re after the cargo, that’s all. Once they’ve unloaded that, they’ll be on their way and leave us to make our own way home.” At least, that’s what he’s heard. This is his first Caribbean berth, as he’d been assigned to the North Atlantic warships for most of his career and engaged with Spain. Still, even there, tales of the high seas pirates had been common.

“Where’s the Captain?” Beecham, the bosun and one of James’s small resistance party, sounds sullen. “S’pose he’s had his throat cut. S’pose he’s lying dead in his cabin and all.”

“No, I think the blackguards were truthful about that,” James says, and is startled to find that he believes it. It’s not like Captain Perry would have given them any occasion to cut him down, anyway.

His support is rudely yanked away as men unload the barrels from the hold, passing them up and over to the big square-rigger that had chased the _Grace_ to a standstill--not that it had been challenging--and then taken her. The pirates seem to be finishing up their work here, and James holds out hope that they’ll soon be left to lick their wounds in peace.

A murmur through the bound men seated around him grabs his attention again, and there is Captain Perry, looking even shorter and less imposing as he walks beside the pirate captain. He’s clearly trying hard, shoulders up and chin out, but it’s a lost cause, James thinks, and sighs again.

“I thank you for your cooperation,” the pirate says, loudly enough to be heard by all. “We will shortly be on our way. There is just one more thing that I must insist upon.” He smiles benignly down at Perry, who shrinks away a little. “A certain man among your crew made quite a nuisance of himself during our little engagement. Along with your cargo, we will be taking Lieutenant McGraw with us when we depart.” He holds his hand up to check the voices that rise in protest. “Pirate crews are free men, and free men only. We do not impress crew, nor will harm come to him as long as he behaves himself. If he so wishes, he will be put ashore at the port of his choosing in two months time. Think of it as a precaution against retaliation, if you like.”

“What?” James says, stunned. He can see Perry hemming and hawing, but can also read the sneaking relief on the man’s face that he won’t have to face down his rather aggressive and insubordinate Lieutenant at every turn. He can see the short man, Gates, throwing up his hands in disgust. But he can also see the wide grin on the pirate captain’s face, the sure way he has his arms crossed over his chest, and his heart sinks in his breast.

“Welcome to the _Walrus,_ Lieutenant McGraw.”


	2. Chapter 2

From the moment his feet hit the deck of the _Walrus_ \--and what kind of name is that for a pirate ship anyway?--James keeps his eyes open and carefully catalogues everything he sees. He has no intention of remaining aboard her for a moment longer than necessary, and he’ll need a full accounting of her crew, her routines, and her workings, in order to effect his escape.

The captain walks beside him, silent now, leading the way with a gesturing hand as needed, but otherwise letting James look.

“I can provide you with schematics of the hold, if it would be helpful,” he finally says, after James has possibly been staring at the hatch to the aft gundeck for a bit too long, and James snaps his eyes away guiltily, to find the man bloody smiling at him again. All around them the bustle of crew is familiar, as they work to get the ship ready to get underway, and he focuses on that instead of the strange offer.

“Your crew seems quite disciplined, sir,” he offers, just for something to say.

“Please, call me Thomas. We do not stand on ceremony here.”

“Of course, sir.” James answers stiffly, and does not offer his given name in return. Captain Hamilton, as he’d heard his men call him as they crossed, sighs a little. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here. What’s to become of you, and what the meaning of all this might be. I do give you my word that there is no malice in it, and that we will eventually put you ashore as promised, if you desire it. In the meantime, I would have your honest parole, and with it your word as a gentleman that you will not visit harm upon this ship or crew while you are here.” He stops walking and turns to face James, and it’s more than a little irritating that James has to tilt his head up to meet his eyes.

Trapped, James is forced to nod. Otherwise he will have to spend these months in chains, he knows, and grimly, he lets go his hopes of a quick escape.

“You have my parole, sir.”

“Very good, Lieutenant.” Apparently all business, now, the captain turns. “Billy!”

The largest young man James has ever seen lopes up to them.

“Lieutenant, this is Billy Bones, our bosun. Billy, the Lieutenant has given us his parole, and you’ll treat him with all courtesy. Show him a place to stow his kit, and give him a hammock. I need to get us underway.”

Privately, James thinks they should have been underway ten minutes ago, but he certainly isn’t going to give a traitorous pirate sailing lessons, and he follows Billy Bones below into the dark, damp confines of the ‘tweendecks.

Every ship he’s ever set foot on smells the same. Wood and tar, underlying tang of bitter brine and rot, the smell of too many men confined in too small a space for far too long. This one is no different, and the familiarity settles him a bit as he’s led through the galley and the mess, a cargo hold and then another, and finally to where the men have strung hammocks among the guns of the midships battery. Bones leads him to the end of the row, where the wood is most damp and close and the sound of the water loudest, and waves a hand at the hammock hanging there.

“New man on board always gets last hammock,” he says, not meanly, but firmly. “You’ll be eating with the first watch. And best get one thing through your mind right away. On this ship, everyone’s an equal. No one gets preferential treatment. Not the captain, not the quartermaster, nobody. We all have equal stakes and equal shares, and nobody’ll be tugging forelocks to your officer’s rank. So you’d better lose that stick up your arse sooner rather than later.”

“I beg your pardon,” James answers, and if it comes out a little less than polite, well, he’s had a hard day. “I didn’t ask to be here, and I’ve no idea what I’m doing here. So I’ll conduct myself as I damn well please.” He nearly snaps his teeth closed on the end of the last word, right in Bones’ face, and Bones, startled, rears back a bit before shaking his head.

“Christ. You’re going to be a bloody handful, aren’t you. Stow your shit and come on deck. Captain wants you here, he can deal with you.” And with that, he’s left alone.

He can tell they’re underway by the heave and yaw of the deck under his feet. She’s spry, this _Walrus_ , much lighter than the wallowing, piggish motion of the _Grace_ , and he stamps his feet a little on the planking, pleased at the feeling. A few of the men, moving in and around the hammocks, send him curious glances but give him a wide berth, and after he stows his small sea-chest and checks the hammock for rot, he sheds his fine coat, complete with rent and bloodstain, and packs it away, rolls up his sleeves. Then, accepting the inevitable, he goes in search of the Captain.

The vanguard and the fighting crew are still loitering on the main deck, celebrating their victory, and he picks his way through them without making any eye contact. The deck crew bustle about, setting sails, coiling rope, and there’s not much to distinguish this ship from any other he’s sailed on, truly.

“Ah, Lieutenant,” the captain greets him as he joins him on the foredeck. “I trust your lodgings are suitable?”

“Fine, thank you sir,” James answers, and he keeps being set more and more wrongfooted by this entire situation, by this crew and this ship, and most of all by her tall, aggressively courteous captain.

“Reef the t’gallants, loose the mainsails!” A bellow goes up from the stern, and James’s eyes raise involuntarily to see the foretopmen scramble up the rigging to follow their orders. “Beat to leeward! We’ve time to make up, you jackals, jump lively now!”

“Mr. Gates has a formidable presence about him when relaying the Ship Master’s orders,” Captain Hamilton tells him comfortably.

“Shouldn’t those be your orders, sir?” James asks, and his careful question, posed with some anxiety, is answered with a laugh.

“I am no great seaman, Lieutenant. I was not born to it nor raised to it, and I leave navigation and sailing to those best equipped. I do, however, have a great nose for a prize, and a good grasp of strategy and tactics, and my men are happy enough to follow me to victories and heavy purses.” Blue eyes regard him keenly, and James notices, nonsensically enough, that the captain has washed his face. He has an aristocratic look about him, matching his voice; high cheekbones and a fine brow, a soft, sensitive mouth and stubborn chin. He’d look more at home in a drawing room in London than here, James thinks, and then forces those thoughts away.

The captain takes off his hat, and runs a hand through sensibly short blond hair that gleams in the late-day sun. “That disappoints you, I see. Here on the Account, we all play to our greatest strengths. The men vote to elect their leaders, and then accept those leaders in their roles. I lead the men in the hunt. The Quartermaster leads them in peace. The Master plots our course and maintains our seaworthiness, and all share and share alike in the risks and rewards. It’s astonishingly progressive.” 

“It sounds like anarchy,” James says, disapproving.

“I can see how it might, to you,” the captain nods, and once again, James is nonplussed.

“If I may be so bold, what am I doing here, sir?” He’s determined to discover at least this.

“All in good time, Lieutenant. I know you’ve been assigned a mess, but at six bells, I generally eat with some of the men in the main galley. We discuss all manner of things. Some are learning to read, others to do their sums, and with some few, we discuss literature and philosophy. I’d be most gratified if you would join us.”

James stares at him. 

“Are you running a school in your mess hall? Or a salon? Sir.”

“A bit of both, Lieutenant, if you must know.” The man’s grin is bright and genuine and James is blindingly annoyed by it, down to his bones, but he knows full well he won’t decline. His own bloody curiosity and fear of boredom will drive him to it. And he wishes to see this odd arrangement of pirates learning literacy, of all absurd concepts. 

Traitors to the crown, becoming lettered men!

“I will attend,” he finally says, stiffly. “Most grateful, sir.”

The captain has the temerity to clap him on the shoulder at that.

“Well done, Lieutenant. Who knows. If you give it a chance, here, you just might like it.”

Over his bleeding dead body, James fumes to himself, and makes his way below.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas's Revenge

Thomas Hamilton is reading aloud from a book called _Don Quixote_ , apparently translating from the Spanish on the fly as he does, and James simply cannot take it any more.

“I beg pardon, sir,” he breaks in, and the Captain pauses, and raises a polite brow. “But what the devil are you _doing_ here?”

Hamilton had interrogated him about his reading habits, and had appeared honestly delighted when James had grudgingly admitted to his extensive library. He had then dragged James into his cabin, which is indeed stuffed full of books, and had selected this one, settled down in the chair behind his desk, and started to read his favorite parts, apparently expecting James to be an appreciative audience.

“I’m reading, obviously?” Hamilton answers, when it’s clear James isn’t going to elaborate on his question.

“Here. On this pirate ship, in the Caribbean. You are clearly an educated man, clearly of high birth, perhaps even of the nobility.” James breaks his strict parade rest long enough to scrub a frustrated hand through his hair, and scratch his chin. He’s growing a beard, and it’s itching abominably. “And yet you sail this ship, filled with illiterates, and live by thievery and treason.”

“Ah. The difficult question, then.” Hamilton closes the book carefully, minding his place, and flattens his hands on the deep red leather of the cover. He doesn’t appear to be upset or offended by James’s question, but his fine blue eyes never leave James’s face.

“You see, Lieutenant, I prefer the company of men,” he starts, and James forgets, for a moment, how to breathe. Hamilton never ceases that unwavering gaze, and James cannot even blink. “My father, Lord Alfred Hamilton--yes, I see you recognize the name, he is one and the same--was terribly put out by some of my political aspirations in the House Of Lords. He had my name ruined, my lover hanged, my wife threatened and then removed to her family home. Such are the powers of his place in London.” 

Finally, an expression crosses his face, and it’s a smile, though it’s bitter, and more than a little angry, and does not reach his eyes.

“I was to be transported to a prison colony. He could not quite bring himself to sentence me to death, you see. Not out of any regard for my person, but a scion of the house of Hamilton should never dangle from a gibbet, in his mind. I, understandably, chose to resist this plan. When the transport was taken by pirates, I joined them willingly. And here I am.” He spreads his hands, indicating the well-appointed cabin, the ship stuffed with spoils. “Once a year, I send a letter to My Lord father, accounting for every penny of commerce I have cost the colony of the Bahamas, and every lover I have taken in that time. So far, he has failed to send a reply. An oversight, I’m sure.”

For the first time, James can see the pirate captain in the lord sitting before him. It’s something in the wolfish edge the smile has taken on, or how his eyes are glittering now, but not with mirth.

He wets his parchment-dry lips with his tongue, and watches Hamilton watch the movement. His mind is in turmoil, and he cannot think of a single suitable response.

“I suppose that is a good reason to be here,” he finally says, lamely, and that startles a genuine laugh out of Hamilton, who relaxes back in his seat.

“Thank you, I thought so, yes. Now sit down, Lieutenant. It is a terrible, terrible thing that you have never read Cervantes. How in all your travels have you not learned Spanish? Yes yes, the North Atlantic fleet, I know. Here, let me pour you some wine.”

James sits, still more than a bit numb, and accepts the wine. Though he listens to the adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza for the next hour, his mind is occupied elsewhere.


End file.
